


Laundry Tales

by Yasminke



Series: From the files of ... [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-04
Updated: 2002-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasminke/pseuds/Yasminke





	Laundry Tales

_~~ Monday, the 4th ~~_

Once in a while, I have blinding moments of indisputable clarity when I know exactly what must be done and I set about doing just that.

Today did not contain a single one of those moments.

Firstly, I woke up late and in pain, having stayed up until three a.m. to finish a summary of our latest vision-induced battle. I called Cordelia before I left home to see how she felt, and to ensure nothing was needed in the office. I fastidiously wrote down her requests, including lunch orders then forgot the list next to the phone, alongside my laundry check.

She was not happy, to put it mildly. My day deteriorated rapidly after that. Like an avalanche down an Alpine mountainside until it decimates the villages below with its blind destruction. By the time I decided the world would be much safer if I went home, I realised I had hardly any groceries in the flat and that my laundry awaited pickup. Three days ago.

Before I venture to explain why I shall be spending the next few nights sleeping in the back of a dry cleaning establishment, it strikes me that some exposition is needed.

I have been quite fortunate to find an efficient laundry, run by the Parks (of no relation to that execrable creature at W & H; for some reason, they find it quite whimsical that I should think they had any solicitor, let alone an evil one, in the family). Mrs. Parks, a commanding matron even if she barely reaches my sternum, took pity upon me when she saw me unsuccessfully trying to get ectoplastic residue out at ten p.m. on a Saturday. She clucked and started to drag me, as well as my shirt, into the back of the laundry. Nonplussed by what I, a Watcher trained in demonic combat, considered a daunting task, she began rattling off instructions in Korean, faster than warp speed on the Enterprise. When it became clear I had no idea what she was trying to show me, she called for her son.

An undergraduate at USC (in philosophy, I believe), Chun translated whatever she said, making sure I understood the ingredients used to remove the stain. It must have been blatantly obvious that I did not. When she finished, she chirped (which is the closest I can come to describing her voice at this late hour) something to him. He left me standing there, mouth agape, looking ever like the stunned greenhorn I imagined I appeared.

"Mother says boy scouts shouldn't mess around with demons," he remarked nonchalantly, when he came in with the rest of my laundry. "She also says you need to take her up on the bachelor's deal," he explained, "which means we do your laundry because you're a hopeless schmuck at it. Price list, front counter. Pick these up tomorrow."

Which I did. Chun handed me the laundered and pressed items, then asked what I *really* did for a living. Apparently, boy scout isn't an occupation. Luckily, Angel had by then offered me a job, so I invented something I thought plausible. Chun then explained that the complete laundry deal was a "special pity package", that normally it included just trousers and shirts, dry cleaning extra. I paid the bill, then at that point Mrs. Parks came out from the back, chirped something and handed me a package. I felt like an absolute prat when I reached out to take from her the plastic grocery bag with a heavy bottle inside, thinking it was some of the "stain treatment".

Chun laughed when I thanked her. "It's kim-chee. She says you don't eat enough. And that if you're going to continue to hunt and kill demons, you need a wife and kids. Or at least get some target practice in, if you know what I mean."

I do, unfortunately, know precisely what he meant.

And so began my relationship with the Parks family. Luckily, Mrs. Parks has stopped trying to find me a wife. Although she is not hesitant about voicing her opinion about my apparent lack of female companions, she seems quite taken with my descriptions of Fred and is grateful Cordelia is such a good friend.

As am I.

When I arrived tonight, complete with a prepared speech abounding with excuses and apologies, Mrs. Parks was in a most terrible state of anxiety, the likes of which I have never seen. Chun and his girlfriend (or is it fiancée now?), Laura, were trying to calm her down, but to no avail. When she saw me approach the front counter, she barked, not chirped, and ordered Chun to talk to me.

It appears there has been a number of thefts in the laundry. Recently, Mrs. Parks explained (with nervous, furtive glances and an uncharacteristic wringing of her hands), silk dresses and shirts, satin sheets and a few items of Egyptian linen have disappeared. I asked her how long this has been happening, and she remarked, "One week." I then asked if Laura would be so kind as to produce an itemised list of the missing articles, in order that I might ascertain if there was a pattern.

She left, and we continued the questioning on a more open level. Now, _everyone_ knows that there are demons who steal the odd sock from the washing machine time and again. Even Rocko acknowledges that as indisputable fact. However, as I myself have only lost one sock in the Parks' establishment, I realise that this is indeed a rare event.

I simply never questioned why I haven't lost more.

It turns out that Mrs. Parks has had an arrangement with a group of such demons. Any odd socks patrons leave lying about are put in the back, free to whomever. The arrangement has been in place for fifteen years and was working well, despite a recent upheaval in the local "small time management" (such is Chun's translation, not my wording). Kept customers, demons and the Parks happy.

And so it seems socks are no longer the issue. Nor lingerie, Chun quickly added, although I think I will let that comment slip by, thankyoueversomuch.

Neither Mrs. Parks nor Chun know from whence the demons hail, where they reside presently, nor when they arrive to claim their treasures. Those with whom the original pact was struck have long since departed, Mrs. Parks believes, as they were already "honoured with age" when they met. The new "management" simply left a note, stating that for the time being all agreements would be respected out of loyalty to their originators.

Laura returned with the two pages of stolen articles (all in one week?) and I promised to return tomorrow with a more concrete idea of how to proceed. I then took my laundry and returned home.

After I managed to scrounge up something that looked edible, I perused the list. Much to my discouragement, my favourite brown shirt was listed as having disappeared last night while I was being bowled about in an alley like a cricket ball.

As a pattern does not truly seem forthcoming, I shall set about getting some sleep and search Cordelia's databases in the morning.

That is, if I haven't given myself food poisoning. I'm not entirely sure what I ate.

 

 _~~ Tuesday, the 5th ~~_

Whatever it was that I ate last night, it wasn't toxic. I woke this morning almost ready to tackle whatever the world threw my way. Especially if it relieved me from spending the night amid the smell of dry cleaning fluids.

The day progressed cheerfully, once I described the Parks' predicament, but uneventfully. Both Angel and Fred assisted (he in texts, she on the Internet) me in compiling a list of possible suspects and their descriptions so that I might identify and eliminate, if necessary, the culprits. Gunn spent the afternoon snickering at the idea that we were tracking dirty laundry until Fred held her nose and pretended to asphyxiate whenever he walked past. Cordelia went through the itemised list and snorted something about opening a cheap cathouse.

And thus the day went, until some time around four p.m., when Cordelia had what I thought was a vision. It turned out to be just a "great idea".

Sometimes it's difficult to differentiate between the two; from the exasperated look on Angel's face, he concurs.

At eight in the evening, after an emergency drive to McDonalds, I arrived at the Parks' laundry, armed with field glasses, weapons, satin sheets and a few of Cordelia's "old things": three of her out-of-style evening dresses.

My acceptance of their case must have relieved Mrs Parks immensely, for she has returned to her endearingly sardonic self. After she inspected the dresses and retired to her apartment upstairs, Laura turned and asked who the "wannabe with the boob job" is. I made to defend Cordelia, but the smirk on Laura's face said that she understood without further elucidation.

She'll do well in their family.

Nothing happened in the laundry until four thirty-seven. At that time, a barely perceptible scratch came from the back door, just west of my location. Within minutes, three demons entered and began to investigate the laundry's holdings. A quick glance at the Lilliputian thieves (they are most certainly shorter than Mrs Parks herself, hence under one hundred and fifty centimetres) allowed me to narrow the culprits to three species. One of those species was not on our preliminary lists since it has not been seen in California since the Gold Rush. They were known to be of a dark green complexion, as opposed to the garish gold and copper before me. The shoulder-length dredlocks dyed in Rastafarian colours are an interesting touch, I will admit.

They quickly absconded with all three sets of red and black satin sheets and one of Cordelia's dresses. Luckily, and many thanks to Fred's scientific curiosity, we have in recent times been able to extract and utilise equipment donated to us by Wolfram and Hart. So, it was with some relief that I could telephone Gunn and inform him that the sheets with the tracking devices had been stolen. Only some relief, because I now have the most excruciating neck ache one can imagine.

Gunn and Angel telephoned later to assure me that they were following the signal on a serpentine route through Orange County. Since no one had been known to have been hurt (except me, apparently), they would continue with simple surveillance.

I must have groaned aloud, because Gunn laughed and told me to get some sleep. And now I shall.

 

 _~~ Wednesday, the 6th ~~_

Angel and Gunn followed the demons to an abandoned warehouse (no surprise) near a studio (also abandoned) which used to produce pornographic films until they went bankrupt. Obviously, they were neither high quality nor high demand films. They were unable to enter the premises, as by the time they had arrived, the sun was due to rise.

Cordelia, while she gloated about the possibility of being correct with regard to the reason for the thefts, downloaded information concerning two of the three possibilities: Roxitom and the Meth'klon. Knowing that the older Per'klon subspecies would most likely not be on the Internet, I brought out a number of texts and handed a Latin demonology to Fred, while Angel browsed through a Korean guide and I a Manchurian text.

We were able to eliminate the Roxitom, inasmuch as they tend to be over two hundred centimetres in height and hairless, and those I saw were assuredly neither.

According to the database from which Cordelia gathered her information, the Meth'klon is most often accompanied by a smaller subspecies of the Klon demon, known as the Tri'klon. She downloaded a picture of a Tri'klon, and while it did remind me of something, it was not present last night. The Meth'klon photograph did appear to be similar to two of the three I spied, once you paint them in metallic body paint, dye their hair, and take away the three-piece suit.

Back to the Meth and Tri co-operative. The website states that these two often work in conjunction, and funnily enough, in construction/demolition. They are classified as "harmless drones" according to the person who entered the data. Not sure Mrs. Parks would agree, but I suppose in the grander scheme of things, monetary loss is a minor tragedy. And, if indeed the Meth'klon and Tri'klon are "drones", there is a higher power directing their efforts.

The problems began at that point. When pressed to describe the third demon, I could not. He had remained in the shadows the entire time; my singular clue that he was there was his baritone voice which reverberated through the dark. The others spoke in alto.

Per'klon demons, I discovered in the Manchurian text (cross-referenced and hence verified in a paragraph in the Korean), are smaller than the Meth'klon, yet taller than the Tri'klon. They are a dark jade in colour, and purported to be the masculine equivalent of a queen bee. Female Per'klon are rarely, if ever seen. They were once prevalent throughout Eastern Asia, but due to a low birthrate and high immigration, their numbers had been steadily declining.

The last entry was from 1909. One wonders how much the situation has changed in recent years. I shall confirm with the Chuns when next we meet.

 


End file.
